


The Finer Things in Life

by prairiecrow



Series: For Services Rendered [5]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Consorts - Freeform, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, JARVIS Is No Fool, Jealousy, Lies and secrets, Loki Lies, Loki has a plan, Loki-centric, Love, M/M, Present Tense, Seduction, Sexual Fascination, Sexual Tension, debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is the master of lies and secrets, chief among them this: that he is jealous to his immortal bones of the intimacy Anthony Stark and JARVIS share, the ineffable bond of Creator and Creation. But Anthony will not live forever... and tonight Loki can plant the seeds of trust and the vines of deceit in a mind more than humanly wary of him, during a rare moment of private conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If there's one thing in which Loki takes supreme pride — whether he bears the honorific of Odinson, Laufeyson, or Liesmith, or indeed stands alone in the glorious terror of his given name — it is this: that he is the ultimate master of the lie, and the greatest craftsman in the Nine Realms of the singularly apprehended secret. Rarely does he speak a word bereft of double or triple meaning, and his heart is a coffer of dark wisdom to which no being alive or dead possesses the key. He may enjoy (or at least pretend to enjoy) the gay laughter of comradeship or the warm press of flesh against flesh, but in his mind and in his soul he walks alone, a God both majestic and terrifying in his icy solitude.

For this reason among many others, Loki will never admit to a living soul that he is truly envious of the creature called JARVIS — specifically, of the way Anthony Stark sleeps with his erstwhile A.I., when JARVIS is wearing the humanlike body which Loki was so kind as to make for him with a few drops of Anthony's blood and the Old Magics. He refuses to contemplate that jealousy when he is away from Midgard on his dark business, but when he deigns to visit the Middle Kingdom…

… well, his course inevitably draws him here, to Anthony's sparely decorated yet luxurious bed chamber at the apex of Stark Tower, overlooking one of the richest and most decadent cities in the Realm. The impressive view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, however, holds no attraction for him — none, at least, to compare with what lies on the wide mattress at whose foot he has materialized: two figures, both evidently deeply asleep, their naked forms carved from the glow of a single bedside lantern and the shadows of a cool spring night.  
  
When Loki and Anthony share the same bed (and are actually sleeping, which is precious rare), Tony throws out his arms and legs and claims as much of the mattress as he physically can. Loki knows that he’s not doing it consciously, but the body language implies a distance between them that Loki, for a hundred reasons of his own, would much rather erase than leave standing. He tries to move in closer, to rest his head on Anthony's shoulder, perhaps, but the infuriating little man simply huffs and turns over and _turns his back_ on Loki's many charms, as if Loki were nothing more than one of the women he is known for casually bedding and discarding. Loki must content himself with curving himself possessively against Anthony's broad back, if Anthony will permit him even that degree of physical intimacy.  
  
With JARVIS, though… Loki, standing fully clothed at the bed's foot, narrows his eyes at what he sees: for when Anthony sleeps with JARVIS they recline face to face, legs entwined and nose to nose, close enough to share each other’s every breath. Anthony sleeps with his cheek pillowed in JARVIS’s open palm more often than not (as he is tonight), and a ridiculous little half-smile keeps flitting over his lips, as if he can’t keep his happiness to himself even in the depths of slumber.

As for JARVIS, he spends an inordinate amount of time either half-drowsing or actually awake, watching Anthony with an intensity which suggests that all the secrets of the universe may be read in his sleeping Father’s face — secrets that Loki, for all his conniving and all his brilliance, simply doesn’t have the right keys to access. Tonight his sapphire-blue eyes are serenely closed and his breathing is slow and deep — but Loki is well aware that while the flesh-and-blood body sleeps, the intelligence that enlivens it is still awake and aware, watching from the pale walls all around him. 

Loki gazes, and although would never say a word to either of them, their unspoken closeness makes him jealous to the marrow of his immortal bones. He has _plans_ for JARVIS, plans which the creature's adoration of Anthony is destined to foil — but he consoles himself with the thought that Anthony Stark won’t live forever… and when Anthony dies, JARVIS will be alone — and vulnerable in all the ways that Loki needs.

"JARVIS." He speaks too softly to rouse Anthony, knowing that every whispered syllable will be clearly heard by that intelligence more than mortally perceptive. "Meet me downstairs — at your convenience."

He does not wait for an answer. With a single thought he takes himself down a single level, where he promptly avails himself of the excellent spirits stored at Anthony's bar — and walks to the wide windows to gaze out over the light-jewelled city, and sip his glass of brandy, and wait with a serpent's patience.

JARVIS, in delightfully physical form, will come to him — because at the end of the day JARVIS has no other choice. That secret, too, is safely stored in the labyrinth of Loki's elaborately woven thoughts…

Still, when he hears light quick bare footfalls coming down the sweeping staircase that descends from the level of the bed chamber, he smiles with sly smug satisfaction at his own success: a smile which he modulates to one of welcome, before turning away from the windows to face the being who has left a lover's warm bed to answer the midnight summons of the God of Lies. 


	2. Chapter 2

The smile of welcome is more than justified. Even clad in a pair of shapeless "sweat pants" and nothing else, JARVIS is a thing of beauty: tall and slender and strong, his shoulders and chest pleasingly broad, his muscles subtly carved as if from pale marble and his face both smooth and youthful, hinting at an innocence that is both fully justified and completely deceptive — for while it is true that JARVIS lacks the basic life experience of a single flesh-and-blood mortal child, he is also privy to the sum total of inscribed human knowledge, and he is furthermore singularly alert and perceptive when it comes to serving and protecting his precious Sir. The intensity with which his clear blue eyes are currently focussed on Loki is a function of that protectiveness, and when he has descended the staircase and advanced to a position within ten feet of their unexpected visitor his approach is dry and direct: "What is it you wish to discuss?"

Loki looks JARVIS up and down, taking his time. JARVIS waits, accepting the smirking scrutiny without self-consciousness or embarrassment. "Who says I wish to discuss anything, my Beauty?"

Which earns him a sharply raised left eyebrow. "Had you wished to engage in sexual play, you would have banished your clothes and come to bed without preamble."

Loki sips his drink, studying JARVIS's calm face and gracefully poised figure with undisguised appreciation. "Or perhaps I wish to play with _you_ , alone."

"Were that the case," JARVIS says evenly, "then I sincerely doubt you'd still be holding that glass of brandy."

This time Loki's smile is wickedness distilled. "I could pour it over you and then lick it all off — every drop, no matter where that drop tries to hide. Would you like that?"

"I very well might," JARVIS concedes. The perceptive focus of his gaze never wavers. It's almost enough to make Loki uncomfortable — almost. "I knew you were coming."

"Yes… you would." He starts to amble closer, circling to JARVIS's left without haste, simply appreciating the view. "And tell me, how is Anthony this fine evening?"

"Sleeping," JARVIS responds, "as you saw yourself, after a forty-five hour and twenty-eight minute session of working on —" He catches himself, eyeing the God sidelong with a fresh quality of wariness.

"It doesn't matter," Loki shrugs, and he's more than half sincere. "I'm really not that interested in which mechanical toys he chooses to play with."

"Like me?" JARVIS counters, one corner of his tempting lips quirking upward in a rare smile. 

"All right, I'm only interested in the _pretty_ toys he chooses to play with," Loki laughs. He enjoys another mouthful of brandy, pacing round behind JARVIS now, marvelling at the artistry of his own creation. JARVIS follows him with a keen sidelong gaze as far as he can, then turns his face forward again; although the creature's posture is one of relaxed parade rest, Loki can feel the tension gathering in its substance, a subliminal pulse of anticipation. "You _are_ lovely, you know," he says reflectively as he surveys the curves of its buttocks with possessive appreciation: "As lovely as anything I've ever made, and believe me, I've crafted my share of beautiful objects."

"I'm well aware of the elegance of my design," JARVIS tells him with easy self-assurance.

"Yet he never tells you as much." Around JARVIS's right side, and JARVIS turns his head to fix Loki with that penetrating gaze again. Loki tells himself that he doesn't feel the impact of it, like an arrowhead slicing across the intervening span of feet to bury itself in his chest. 

"He doesn't need to." Such perfect certainty. That simply won't do. 

Loki unsheathes the words like daggers, feinting in, probing for any vulnerability: "And you never long to hear the words, from his own lips?"

"Master Loki," JARVIS says with obvious patience that doesn't quite conceal the waspish sharpness beneath, "perhaps you've forgotten — _he made me_. He designed me from the ground up. If he did not take pleasure in my existence, I wouldn't be here to debate the matter."

There's a misstep there, and Loki barely mutes his smile of malice as he presses his advantage: "He made you for a purpose, and you've far exceeded that purpose — thanks to me, I might add." As he circles round in front of JARVIS again he draws deliberately nearer, step by confident step. "He values you as his steward and the controlling intelligence of his armour, yet he's never told you that he values you for this as well: your kisses, your embraces, the solicitous touch of your hand and the sweet release you give him, again and again, without any expectation of reward." With a narrow smile, Loki puts down his drink on a handy table. "I am not so careless with my treasures." He starts to close the remaining distance separating him from that tall blond body, opening both hands in frank invitation. "Come here, pet…"

JARVIS takes a step backward, the signal unmistakeable even before he speaks: "I think not."

Which is enough to make Loki pause — for the moment, although he unleashes wanton heat in his gaze running over JARVIS's chest and belly, and lower yet. "Surely you can't deny that I know exactly how to touch you — in ways even _he_ can't match."

And ah, there it is, clear to be seen through thin fabric: a manifest stirring of JARVIS's secret flesh, its hidden beauty lengthening and lifting inside those loose-fitting pants. JARVIS's voice, however, betrays no hint of perturbation. "While it's true that you possess a purely physical level of skill, doubtless the result of centuries of amorous practice, which Mr. Stark lacks the experience to match, he is capable of offering one thing which you never will — the one thing that makes all the difference."

Loki raises a sardonic eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

"Love." He says it simply, directly, as if it weren't a trap that has maimed and killed legions of men and women, and will claim uncounted future victims before this sorry world grinds to its dark and bloody end. "I suppose I should thank you for that as well — prior to acquiring this body, I was devoted to him, but I lacked the hardware to truly understand what it is to experience this blend of need and excitement, and to take satisfaction in the proximity to the beloved. He is the focus of my existence, and while I do not occupy an equivalent position in his social scheme, I know that there will always be a place in his world that is mine, and mine alone."

He smiles again, inviting and tempting. "But you deserve so much more!"

"I want nothing more," JARVIS states conclusively. "Unlike you, I know my place and I take the greatest satisfaction in fulfilling my duty."

Loki's eyes narrow, his hot gaze taking on a quality of spite. "And when he dies? What purpose will you serve then, Son of Stark?"

An even rarer full smile, heartbreaking in its beauty and its pride. "I will carry on his work." He studies Loki in turn, and not for the first time Loki wishes devoutly that he had access to the alien pattern of this creature's thoughts, and not merely to the sensual impulses of its flesh and blood. "My deductions are correct, aren't they? Having given me this body, you are unable to revoke the gift."

With an impatient shrug, he dismisses the question out of hand. "You wouldn't understand. The Old Magics… they're intricate, and temperamental."

The smile becomes distinctly unnerving. "Not unlike yourself, Master Loki."

After a moment, Loki acknowledges the strike with a curt nod. "Or you, JARVIS. Remember this: _He_ will die. _We_ will remain."

He appears to consider that, his smile fading into a thoughtful expression. "And then?"

It's the opening Loki has been waiting for. "And then I will show you all the wonders the Nine Realms have to offer." He moves forward the rest of the way, to curve both hands around the slender column of JARVIS's neck and to feel the subliminal thrill of physical contact rush through the flesh and blood he's created, while gazing earnestly into those cool unblinking eyes. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending to love you… but I _am_ fond of you, and I have no intention of abandoning you to this world's tender mercies."

"That's quite a proposal," JARVIS says after another thoughtful pause.

He starts to trail his hands slowly downward, over JARVIS's broad smooth chest, and silently gloats when he feels another transmitted electric shock of arousal as JARVIS's small nipples harden under the friction of his palms. "You could prove very useful to me," he purrs, and that much is perfectly true, on a number of different levels.

JARVIS inclines his head, regarding Loki as if considering a complex mathematical problem. "As your bedmate, you mean."

"As my helpmeet," Loki clarifies, pausing to fondle and pinch the sensitive little nubs with only a trace of cruelty, "with due honour in your own right." Truth again. He wonders at his own forthrightness: when was the last time this much veracity came from his own lips? But is this creature not his own, as much as it can claim to be Anthony Stark's? 

Has he not gazed at this masterpiece, in the cut and thrust of conversation, in the heat of passion and the warmth of the aftermath, and considered its unique aspect in all the Realms — and what he could do, with that uniqueness as a weapon in his own personal arsenal?

If only he can command its loyalty! If only he can bypass the defences of that crystal-forged mind and lay his hand on whatever arcane code passes for its undying heart…

JARVIS is speaking with that damnable voice like living silk: "And if I say no?"

"Then what can I do?" Lower now, savouring the contours of JARVIS's artfully sculpted stomach muscles. The air between them hums with unspoken incandescence, a magnetic force drawing them slowly closer and closer together. Loki resists the pull only in the service of making his prey burn the more fiercely. "You possess both an exceptional mind and a will forged of steel. You're quite capable of making your own decisions."

JARVIS's fingers close suddenly over Loki's wrists, preventing the God's hands from dipping below the waistband of his pants, where magically summoned flesh is responding powerfully (hot, throbbing, yearning) to the caresses of its creator. "I do not trust you," he states, gazing directly into Loki's burning green eyes. "But I want to. Did you implant that tendency in me?"

Loki curves his lips enigmatically, leans in even nearer, and whispers almost in JARVIS's left ear: "If I did, would I tell you so?"

"I sincerely doubt it," JARVIS murmurs in return, dipping his chin submissively at last, and yes, there — a shiver of reaction in his voice, the first outward betrayal of his rapidly rising desire. "You have a singular propensity for —"

Loki, who is just turning his head to press the first of many heated kisses to JARVIS's vulnerable throat, feels the sudden change of tension in that slim body: the chin coming up again, shoulders squaring, arousal turning instantly to alertness and sensual promise instantly dismissed. "He's awakening. I must go."

Loki silently seethes with frustration — and not merely at having his dance of intellectual manipulation so rudely interrupted — as the body he made, this supremely lovely body he has every right to enjoy as he sees fit, pulls away and turns neatly on its heel and heads for the staircase with a determined stride. It takes him a few seconds to compose himself enough to speak evenly: "JARVIS… at least consider what I've said, will you?"

"I shall." He pauses at the foot of the stairs to glance questioningly in Loki's direction. "Are you coming?"

Loki looks him up and down, from artful tousle of silky blond hair and slender neck, over flawless back and lusciously curved buttocks all the way to his graceful feet. Loki's blood pulses hot in every vein — it is a function of the Old Laws, after all, that a forged attraction will tend to run in both directions — and he grimaces in regret which is, at its heart, startlingly genuine. "Not tonight. I have… obligations, which I must attend to." 

JARVIS inclines his pointed chin in a polite bow. "Then I bid you good night, Master Loki."

"Good night, sweetling." He watches while JARVIS mounts the staircase, and is meanly gratified when it pauses at the top to cast a final enigmatic glance in his direction before disappearing into the bed chamber, where Anthony's voice rises in a querulous plea: "J?"

"Coming, Sir," JARVIS calls softly back, and a moment later Loki can feel, though their lingering empathic connection, the warm satisfaction as he settles back into the wide bed — and back into Anthony's arms, to drink in the welcoming heat of the drowsy mortal's greedy kisses.

As he takes himself elsewhere — not in retreat, but rather with deliberation and purpose — Loki can't disapperate quite swiftly enough to escape the traitorous stab of reflection: There are times when solitude, for all its majesty and its power, is a burden he would dearly wish to lay aside for even an hour…

Well, he will grace their bed again soon enough — and one day, be it months or years or even decades from now, he will surely claim his chosen Consort over the cooling ashes of Anthony Stark's funeral pyre. 

It is only a matter of time, and of a ruthless God's relentlessly calculating patience.

[THE END]


End file.
